


The Last Kings

by Fuzziestpuppy



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Dark, M/M, Mention of FC5 Ending/New Dawn, Post-Canon, Rangoon Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzziestpuppy/pseuds/Fuzziestpuppy
Summary: “You’ll be the last,” I tell him in that moment. “The very last King of Kyrat.”
Relationships: Ajay Ghale/Pagan Min
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	The Last Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ridgeline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridgeline/gifts).



***

When I asked Ajay to sit and wait for me, he did.

He managed to quell that defiant fire in himself…at least, for long enough to do as he was told. He sat there oh-so-obligingly at the dinner table even as he vibrated with tension like an overdrawn bow, one that I hoped wouldn’t blow apart in my hands.

But now when I look into his eyes I realize that I have him, that Kyrat has him. She’s already cast her dark spell on him. Perhaps what he is was always just under the surface, waiting to break free. Waiting to be aimed.

His eyes say, _Can I really do this?_ As the Kalashnikov kicks in his hands. As smoke rolls over the bodies and the churned mud. As if he can’t do anything he pleases.

Blood and fire. A baptism, of sorts.

I take his face in my hands, take in his elation even as the tears roll down his cheeks.

“You’ll be the last,” I tell him in that moment. “The very last King of Kyrat.” I wipe his tears with my thumbs, but really just succeed in smearing the soot and blood on his face and I know that he doesn’t understand what I mean.

No matter.

One of my hands slides lower and I take him by the throat, just a little pressure. He lets me do it, those tears still trembling in his eyes. Her eyes. Their eyes, always watching me.

No one else will, not while I still live. No one else will touch him like this. The rifle in his hands presses into my chest, the overtaxed barrel blisteringly hot; hot enough to scorch even through the heavy fabric of my coat. A brand across my heart.

No matter, no matter.

No one else will put a hand on him. Ishwari’s boy. Mohan’s boy. _My_ boy. He always was. Kyrat was just waiting to sing him home again, a dying swan’s song.

That night, after we have dinner together and perhaps more wine than is entirely prudent, he grabs at me and clumsily attempts to pin me down. I laugh and let him, of course. He doesn’t yet know how to do it properly, but he’ll learn. I was wondering when he might try, that other fire burning bright in his eyes. _Their_ eyes, always watching.

 _Can I really do this?_ As if I won’t give him anything his little heart desires. I rub at the blistered skin on my chest even as I laugh again and open my legs for him, drawing him in. 

I twist my fingers in his hair and bite down with bruising force on the tender skin of his throat, just to remind him where he belongs. Here, with me. Mine.

I let him take me, take his pleasure and it’s over much too fast for my tastes. Young men have no stamina, and when I say so I can see the offense in his eyes, that defiance, but that’s quite all right. He’ll learn this too, as I pin him firmly to the bed in turn. Muscle writhes under his skin but he finds he can’t move a bit, even sweat-slicked as he is. I hold him there and tease him until he snarls, until he’s nearly sobbing, not even able to grind himself against me.

When I finally loosen my hold just enough to push into him, I soothe over that bruise on his throat with my mouth, just to show him where he belongs.

He sighs gently under my hands.

While we’re asleep in bed, sometimes I wake in the darkest part of the night shaking and covered in sweat. He probably thinks that I dream about the baby, or something else entirely, god only knows what. He puts his arms around me and I let him.  
  
But I never tell him about those dreams, and I never will.

They’re always the same: he and I stand here at the top of the world and look down and watch it devour itself in all its pettiness and misery. Fire and ash, we watch as it all dies in an invisible, deadly wind. It dies, but only to be born again, in sprays of gorgeous magenta flowers as far as the eye can see. But they’re not right, those flowers. They’re beautiful, but there’s something about them that I don’t trust. Not a bit.

He doesn’t yet understand that, while I’m the king of starvation and ruin, he’ll be the king of ashes and dust. The last Kings of Kyrat, and I won’t tell him why. Kingdom come. The kings of nothing at all.  
  
Not today, or tomorrow, but soon. Perhaps even a few years off still, but one day everything will wind down like an old clock. And then, with nothing left to remind me of it, the hate will finally die in my heart. Burn itself out like a brand.

Leaving only him.  
  
Only him.

End

***


End file.
